Pick me up love (pick me up love), everyday. . .This is currently the song that inspires the most glee (and highest degree of volume increasage) when I randomly encounter it on the radio. You know, I think I may never get a cd player in my car. . .and not just because I am poor. There is something charming about the chaotic happy accident of hearing a song you really like on the radio. . .'specially when it's a song you don't own a copy of, about, under, at, preposition attack!. . .as if the universe is giving you an especially nice and relatively meaningless present. Of course, then there are the days where 30 of your 45 driving-to-work minutes are wasted attempting to flee morning-host talking. But not today.

Today's drive featured Brass In Pocket, One Night In Bangkok, the aforeferenced Dave Matthew's Band ditty, and If I Had A Million Dollars by the always-excellent Barenaked Ladies (not all on the same station, though). The more I listen to BNL, the more I like them. They are one of those bands where buying the cd is highly worthwhile, because it will be chock full of excellent songs which are not particularly pop-adaptable; thus if you did not shell out the cash, you would never hear them. I also hear BNL is a band which you just must Must MUST see live, but I would not know that myself, as last August when they were in town I was in a Scottish Play rehearsal for 3 HOURS where I was only working for maybe 30 minutes GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! end rant.

Little hyper today. It's the friday b4 yet another 4-holiday weekend and somebody will be back in town this afternoon to spend it with. Yea for me. Having no pressing deadlines, worktime is mostly being spent websurfing and socializing. Yea for me again. And over lunch I get to go get my eyebrows waxed and pick up an altered formal in preparation for Saturday evening's event. I'd call that half a yea.

Saturday night I'll be attending the Fleur de Lis Ball. This is a social coming-out event for daughters of rich St. Louisian Catholics; the ArchBish will be there and everything! (Coming-out in the debutant sense, by the by, not the gay/lesbian sense, and yes, they still do that, much to my surprise.) I'm sure I'll have one or twelve things to say on the subject come Monday. . .which will, of course, not make the Blog until Wednesday, when I stumble back to work.

When you're on a holiday. . .Well, my Christmas was nice. Was yours? Guess I should splain: Though I am pagAn and thus celebrate Yule/Solstice myself, my mom is a Christian and Holiday Lover. She is willing to tolerate this alternative religion of mine as long as it does not interfere with her fun.

What can I say? Yule isn't really exciting for me, since I am Wuss Rex when it comes to cold weather, and I enjoy our family winter festivities, since they are very laid back and involve lots of cooking and presents for me. So I fold like a wet taco. I'm comfortable with that.

In the realm of really good presents being those that you like and yet wouldn't've gotten for yourself, I scored 2 notable gifts: a portable finger-puppet theatre (that one's coming to work with me, oh yes) and a padded toliet seat with pretty daisies on the lid.

More splaining: For my mum's birthday, we took her to a tapas bar near my apartment. Due to the proximity, we hung out at my place for awhile to do the present unwrapping, etc. During this time, both my mom and sister had occassion to use the facilities and decided my toliet seat was unacceptably uncomfortable. They neglected to mention this, out of politeness I assume, which is good because I might then have pointed out paying my electric bill so I can continue to run my blue electric blankie is much more of a priority for me. Instead, they quietly shopped for, puchased and wrapped a new one. Shrug.

It is comfortable. . .if it were only electrically heated, twould be perfect.

That's me in the spot. light. losing my religion. . .I karaoke. Regularly. I think I've mentioned that before in this blog, but in case I hadn't, I wanted to make it known right up front.

I karaoke and, while not exactly ashamed of the fact, I do recognize it to be kind of a silly activity. A silly activity which many people take too seriously. I have been one of those many people from time to time.

I karaoke and I enjoy it and have witnessed many wonderful and appalling things there. Last night I was most appalled. We went to a new location under the guidance of Jasoandsarah. It was a crowded dive. Nothing wrong with that. However, several times, several of the rowdy patrons yelled "Get off the stage!"

I karaoke and I also act and thus getting up on that little platform is no big problem for me. However, for many, karaokeing is a minor act of bravery which, if well executed, can leave them feeling all aglow for the rest of the night and which, if flubbed, can leave them all out-of-proportion despondent.

I karaoke and I like the feeling of communion when everyone is connected and supportive and something really cool is going on-stage;like Miles' now legendary "Don't Worry, Be Happy" improv.

All of the assholes who dared to profane this by yelling "Get Off the Stage" should spend eternity karaokeing Barry Manilow to bikers in hell.

My life, in a nutshell. . .If Big Lots is the answer, what was the question?

Feeling guilty about getting Christmas cards from people. Thinking about creating New Year's cards.

I was not feeling great or awake this morning, so I took it off to sleep. I am now sitting here in wa-a-ay inapropriate office attire, from my Bama ball cap, down to my light blue Chuck Taylor low-slung All Stars.

You never realize how ridiculous those animated Christmas specials are until you try to describe the plot to someone who hasn't seen them.

Getting nothing but static. . .Know what? Even if I had considered getting an XCam2, if I really wanted one, if buying one would save starving children or find a cure for Turrets, I am so sick of the pop-up ads I would not do it. So there.

I am currently fascinated with the legal issues behind the only television show (current) I watch: The West Wing. If anyone happens to know of a web site which discusses that stuff particularly, please e-mail it along.

Does anyone else remember the show Today's Special? It had a magically alive mannequin named Jeff, who had a magic plaid cap. . .and then there was Muffy, the relatively large mouse puppet. . .and Sam, the night watchman in the department store where the show took place. . .and Jodi, who made the window displays and was otherwise the straight man. Golly, I miss that show. It was lovely. It was Canadian. Hocus Pocus Alamagocus, indeed.

It's my birthday, too, yeah. . .Hey, it's my Mom's birthday! Happy Birthday to her! It's also my friend Matt's birthday! And Jones's birthday was Monday! And Bob's birthday was last Saturday! Happy Birthdaying to all!

Phew, that wore me right out. Time for a cookie and a nap. They are date cookies, too, from the holiday pot-luckcheon. Yummmmmm.

Help me take my life less seriously. . .My former boss, Ricochet Rabbit, rings my extension this afternoon-

RR: Do you have the phone number for Bread Company?
Me: Uh. No.
RR: Oh. Because it's not on the menu we have here at the front desk.
Me: Right.
RR: So, do you have it?
Me: The phone number?
RR: Yes.
Me: No. I usually just walk over there.
RR: (hangs up)

Daily it seems the universe seeks to reaffirm my decision to change jobs. Thank you universe! You no longer owe me pudding!

Seriously, though, if anyone out there knows how to spontaneously remove printing from menus, leaving the paper intact and unmarked, please let me know. Having been accused of it, I might as well. . .

Isn't that convenient?. . .It's a rainy day in Saint Louis, so the World News Store has some nice miniature umbrellas prominently displayed near the check-out for the low, low bargain price of $19.95.

Also featured: Toast Flavoured crackers. This seems unnecessary to me, but doubtless there are people who could wax eloquent about the difference between those and normal crackers. . .or bread flavoured crackers. I don't want to meet them.

And: on my Eclipse gum (spearmint) there is a phrase admonishing me that this is NOT A LOW CALORIE FOOD. A quick peek at the Nutrition Facts informs me that it is, in fact, low calorie. . .so why don't they just say NOT A FOOD? Wouldn't that make more sense?

I also got some peanut M&Ms. They are yummy. I've no piercing insights about them. (crunch, crunch, crunch) Sound FX here.

Who's got their claws in you, my friend?. . .I am just now to be realizing that my commenting option is apparently not working. . .Also that my Halloween Candy Update is hopelessly out of date. However, as today is Deadline Day, there is to be no fixing, only noticing and commenting.

Another new and startling realization: Sometimes you can get way less sleep than you are accustomed to and still have much more energy. This is something people have been suggesting to me for years, but I could never stay awake long enough to test it.

Perhaps tomorrow there will be fixing.

Say yes to one and leave the other behind. . .And today I am feeling special. And rather like a pinball. Let me splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:

I've just gotten a new position in the office where I am working. I have left behind the HR HoseBeast and Richocet Rabbit the Admin Supervisor for the fair land of Editoria where my boss is currently in mourning for her favorite Beatle and I have my own cozy little cubiculo. Then the receptionist temp quit this morning and LobbyLand became chaos. R.Rabbit demanded my help, in very vague terms. George's #1 fan valiantly defended me against the passive-aggressive onslaught.

They're fighting over li'l ol' me? Fiddle de dee.

M-I-Z! Z-O-U!. . .at the risk of boring some people and scaring others, I will now take a moment to go on about my college basketball team, for no better reason than that they RULE! They are, in fact, currently ranked #2. Ah, to finally have a really good team again, like the Tigers of 1995, soothes my soul.

Sometimes young girls do get weary. . .Gotta love sitting at your desk late late in the Friday afternoon, knowing your staying until after 6 pm will render you one of the last souls in the office and asking yourself riddles to the tune of "When is a weekend not a weekend?"

Do we answer ourselves? Yes, with hallowed-under eyes we reply, "When you will be rehearseling four times, performing twice, audiencing twice and auditioning once."

Oh, for an entire day of sleep and no expectations. . .sigh.

What's the buzz?. . .Wow, apparently I fell off the planet there for awhile. I'd say I'm lucky. . .Morgaine wandered with the fairies for several years, I was only gone for just over 2 weeks.

OK, I wasn't _really_ gone, but the effect is the same on the blog, so what the hey? I've been involved in training, both job exity and entrancing, which has kept me very occupied. However, in consequence of having my blog deemed evermore boring, I have vowed to return and blog again. Hi ho, silverwear, awaaaaaaaaaay!

Oh God, save me from your followers. . .OK, so, besides the terrorism stuff, the Taliban is apparently bad because they oppress women, don't allow men to shave their faces and don't allow unreligious music or dancing. Does this mean if we could get the Catholics, Amish and Baptists to hide together in a bunch of caves in the desert we could start bombing them too?

whew! A lady just walked in here wearing a light turquoise mock-turtleneck under a hot pink wool blazer. Wait, let me see how far the damage goes.....black pants, ok, someplace for the weary eyes to rest.

Tell me if I've gone overboard, and I'm begging you to forgive me, oh, in my haste. . .So, 3 a.m. accidents are yet another of the fun aspects of grown-up car ownership. Yea! And now I get to talk to the Insurance Adjustors.

I think I'd feel a lot better if they had some more helpful-sounding name, like the Fair Witnesses, or the Observers or the Justice Pursuers. I mean, what exactly are they adjusting? The facts? The terms of my policy?

My last (and first) accident involved my getting screwed over by a little old lady who wasn't wearing her seatbelt and was digging through her purse as she drove along. This was every bit as unpleasant as it sounds and resulted in a lovely new duct tape racing stripe for one of my doors. I niavely thought my insurance company was being paid by me to protect my interests when in fact they are apparently paid by me to roll over and play dead. . .then ask me to pay them more for all the trouble that I caused. I am not so innocent or optimistic this time.

Oh, on and on and on and on. . .In a vile, vile mood, I find myself not having much to say. But post I must, for there have been template updates which I wish to see and test.

Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew. . .Despite my general disturbedness at the recent Changing Candybars Trend, I have to put in a good word for the new Snickers Crunch Bar. It tastes a lot like a Whatchamacallit. Then why not just get a Whatchamacallit?, I ask myself. Because they are a little rare in vending machines and such and nobody in my neighborhood was handing them out on Halloween.

And here the degeneration of society is working in my favor. When I was little or, more accurately, younger, if someone my age had gone about trick-or-treating without a small child they would not have received any candy. Instead, they would have a pillowcase full of scorn to take home and sleep on. In fact, once when I was 12-ish and Halloweening dressed as an old lady, I almost didn't get candy at several houses because my make-up job was too good.

This year? Candy, lots of it, handfuls, . . . and I was out with a bunch of 18-year-olds who are really too old to be candy-panhandling themselves. My theory? Fewer and fewer actual children are allowed to door-to-door it anymore (and many who were out were being driven house to house in minivans), so those who have candy are relieved to see anyone t'all.

I've finally found someone who eats the Nasty Black and Orange Wax Paper Wrapped Peanut Butter Kisses of Death. . .so, if you have any left over that you haven't thrown at something or used for sculpting, send them my way; boss lady loves 'em.

When someone calls downstairs and asks you to answer the questions "Chocolate or White?" and "Blue or Yellow?", cooperate politely; they are trying to bring you a cuppycake.

What makes me think I can start clean-slated?. . .If you can forget about the cranes, it's odd how much new construction looks like ruins. Especially at night.

Now, this story has something to do with. . .Here is one of the irritating aspects of my job which has gotten more irritating recently in a very odd way: I'm on display. The reception area where I sit is big and open and bordered on both sides by glass walls. My desk is low enough so I can be seen by anyone who happens by unless I am actually hiding under the desk, an activity which is frowned upon by the management. This makes it difficult to scratch myself, work on my quilt blocks, sing "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" songs, make faces at the people who call, sleep, and any number of other things which we do when believing ourselves unobserved.

Tangentially, some people seem to think, because I am an actor, this should not bother me. They use the same reasoning to suggest I should be good at lying. First of all, unlike some of the Drama Freaks for whom all the world is truly a stage, I do try to make a distinction between real life and theatre; at this I have varying success. Second, even if I were to be always "on," being on-stage usually involves a script, which is one of the many things I like about it; improv is not so much my gig. Third, if they wanted to pay me my actor's rate per hour, I would gladly behave actorly.

So the other day I was concentrating on a document in Word rather intently (I think it may even have been work-related), humming the harmony to "I'll Fly Away" and, life being as it is, I probably had my finger in my ear or my nose or up my a...nyway, I glance up and am startled, to the tune of jumping in my seat and making a little "aaah" noise, when I see 2 people standing on the other side of the front door glass, just staring. They found my startlement amusing. Now they make a point of waving and knocking on the glass every time they go by. This is incredibly annoying.

When they start throwing peanuts, I will stuff wet paper towels into their office lock.

Now when Christians sit with Pagans, only pumpkin pies are burning. . .Joyous Samhain, everyone. She will now go on for a bit about why she enjoys being a pagan, without touching on patriarchy, dogma or the vilification of sex: Pagans have better holidays. Even the christianized versions of pagan holidays can't help but be better than their merely christian counterparts. Would you rather spend a New Year celebration in binding formal clothes, drinking champagne and catching the count-down on Dick Clark's New Years Rockin' Eve or would you like to go from house to house (or bar to bar) dressed in a kooky outfit, getting free candy and drinks? Would you like to hang out with some candles and incense and have a tarot reading or sit on the couch eating cheez doodles and watching Dick Clark's New Years Rockin Eve? Egging and soaping or shooting guns into the air and watching Dick Clark? Druids and mysticism or Dick Clark?

See, there is no Dick Clark in paganism; he's so unnatural we just don't acknowledge his existence. We're not real sure about Suzanne Summers, George Hamilton or Al Gore either. But we get to keep ghosts, witches (duh) and fairies (literal and figurative). . .I'd call that a pretty good trade.

We've got a great big convoy. . .There apparently are special police just for trucks. On the stretch of highway 44 between Hampton and Kingshighway which I traverse on my erratic route between work and apartment home yesterday I saw a familiar sight: an 18 wheeler which had been pulled over by a pick-em-up truck equipped with the flashing police lights. The pig trucks never have cars pulled over and the semi's are never being guarded by sedan police vehicles. I conclude this means I can ignore bicycle cops when I'm in my Plastic Fantastic Plymouth Acclaim.

Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria. . .Things have Officially Gone Too Far. People have gone beyond flags to "America: Love It or Leave It" and other such cozy homilies shoe-polished on their cars. First Amendment rights apparently no longer apply to personal reading material or Americans of any Middle Eastern dissent. John "the man so racist, conservative and generally abhorrent that his former constituents elected a corpse to office rather than deal with him any longer and did I mention that these are Missourians we're talking about here?" Ashcroft now has they power to detain (and torture?) "fourners" to his hearts content.

And then they started messing with my beer.

At a local meatmarket bar this weekend, I weave and squeeze my way to the bar to order a hard cider. Aging frat boy, who was not in costume, by the way, looks over, decides to move in and be charming:

AFB: What the hell is that?
Me: It's a cider.
AFB: What?
Me: (yelling) Woodchuck. Cider.
AFB: Why aren't you having a Budwiser? Good American drink.
Me: I don't like the way it tastes. (subtext: it tastes like having sex in a boat. you freak.)
AFB: What kind of American are you?
Me: Hey, look, the GoodYear Blimp! (points)
AFB: (looking) Wha? Where? (Rae runs away)

Mostly true that. Except the bit about the blimp.

Oh the places you'll go. . .And what did I learn today, boys and girls?
I AM 59% GOTH.

Oh My Goth! You Goth, Girl. There is a
good chance I am bi. Freakiness pumps
through my viens, but I can still laugh
at myself.

Take the GOTH Test at Fuali.com!

You and me and the devil makes three. . .Sigh. Haven't written for the past 2 days because I was on what turned out to be a very lovely Theatre Tour/Vacation, which I was going to blog about, but playing ketchup at the office (and other fun condiment activities) has left me typing-weary. Wait it must, until tommorrow. Fun Nature Fact: Water Moccasins are apparently aggressive.

I am Jack's pervasive mild nausea. . .How to tell if you are sleep deprived: are you experiencing tiredness? irritability? loss of focus? altered appitite? If so, chances are you may, in fact, be suffering from sleep deprivation. An easier way to tell: Have you averaged no more than 3 and a half hours of sleep per night for the past 3 nights? Hmm, methinks you should take a shot of NyQuil and not move for 12 hours mayhap.

Ever wondered what kind of Intergalactic Explorer you would be? Yeah, me neither, but the test is fun anyway. I'm the Sergeant. Party on, men.

Amazon.com is evil. They e-mail me at work to inform me the latest novel by my current favorite author (or, favorite current author, which is a touch more accurate) (Barbara Kingsolver, for the curious) has just come out in paperback. They do this right after I have made a large payment on my credit card. They know I am now sufficiently below my credit limit to start the voices saying "It's just one book. It doesn't cost that much. One little book. So much happiness." Must. . .resist. . .

Wrapping paper. . .In an odd incidence of non-procrastination, I already have my Misc-Holiday wrapping paper. Really, it's sitting in my car. It's not even Halloween yet.

Despite the stress and weirdness of the anthrax scarings, I must admit I'm getting a perverse pleasure out of wearing my little latex gloves while I open packages with my ergonomically handled exacto-kinfe. Alas, it is not _that_ perverse or wildly pleasurable, it just involves glaring insanely at anyone who walks into the lobby while I am thus employed, then quickly looking guilty and shifty eyed, then grinning rabidly while giggling and standing very still and staring.

Love Strategem's by Donald Justice

But these maneuverings to avoid
The touching of hands,
These shifts to keep the eyes employed
On objects more or less neutral
(As honor, for time being, commands)
Will hardly prevent their downfall.

Stronger medicines are needed.
Already they find
None of their strategems have succeeded,
Nor would have, no,
Not had their eyes been stricken blind,
Hands cut off at the elbow.

Rae J The Red-Nosed Receptionist. . .Day 2 of the cold has dawned bright and sunny. yippee. After having gone through an entire family-sized box of Puffs in 7 hours last night, my nose is much the worse for wear. . .all I can say is I'm glad they were the lotion-laden kind. My condition is now even more obvious than my lowered voice made it yesterday. "Aw, not feeling well today Rae?" "No, just went on a bender last night. Want a line?"

And in a cliche collateral cold attack, I can't taste a thing, which really doesn't happen to me very often. So I had maple-brown sugar oatmeal and beefaroni for breakfast. . .not mixed together, though I might as well have. I guess I could take advantage of this and have something really healthy for lunch. Ooh, or see how much money I can make off of people daring me to eat things!

Nah, it's Meatloaf Day at the Trainwreck, a weekly office mini-holiday. . .I spect I'll participate in the comfort food festing.

The cat door was locked. . .This may be incoherenter than usual, as I'm grappling with yet another cold. . .and really just blogging to invoke some more new template changes.

Had one of the worst performance experiences of my life this weekend. Ever been to a craft show? Or how about a high school basketball game? Imagine trying to perform in the middle of either. Without mics. To 25 unattended children, morons and sleepy elderly people. For an hour and a half. There you go.

Also attended a nifty wedding reception this weekend as an auxillary date for a friend whose fiance could not make the trip. The kind where the food is at least as good as the free bar, the grown-ups are not in charge and you go drinking afterwards with several new friends. Huzzah, indeed.

It amazes me how many people in the world still use rotary phones. I feel for the poor dears, having to sit through the entire voicemail menu, hearing the option they want and need and would choose for themselves, oh! if only they could, and then having to face the humiliation of asking me, the receptionist, for a department they've just heard listed. Excuse me, I must go now, the sarcasm is clogging up my keyboard.

I will splain. No, there is no time. I will sum up. . .Spent some quality time with my blog template this morning, adding and tweaking and further adjusting and cursing the code nessecary to add a "Comments" option. So, it's here now. So, enjoy. Frolick and be happy. Or don't. Whatever.

mutter mutter mutter, opening carot, mutter GRRRRR! mutter

reprogram this. . .What are you doing, Dave?

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. . .Attempting to, ahem, fix the technical difficulties.

hmm, technical difficulties.

A little nonsense now and then, is relished by the wisest men. . .What kind of meat exactly is it in the middle of a wonton? It is very grey and mysterious.

I think I should apologize for being a little too flip with yesterday's e-mail/phone message answer. I'll try to work up an actual formula for it and get back to you.

Having just received one myself recently, I have decided to offer a super secret mindreadersmartypants award to: anyone who can tell from where I've stolen all the boldface-beginning-of-the-daily-blog-quotes. In the absense of an absolute winner, whoever gets the most right will be so honoured. (and even posted on the blog. woo and hoo, indeed!) Extra credit: explain what each quote has to do with that entry.

There's a forward that goes around periodically re: How to Promote Insanity In The WorkPlace. I've seen it many times, and have been known to page myself on the overhead (without laughing, no less), so I usually just discard it. However, yesterday I actually reskimmed it and was inspired with a groovy new e-mail sig line; that'll teach me to be blase about humour e-mailings.

. . .in accordance with the prophecy.

Actual conversation had by me today with an Imo's employee:

Imo's guy: So, what kind of soda do you want with that?
Me: Uh, she asked for a Sprite.
Imo's guy: We don't have Sprite.
Me: Sorry. 7-Up should be fine, then.
Imo's guy: We don't have 7-Up either.
Me: Ok, what kind of clear soda do you have?
Imo's guy: (pause) We have Mountain Dew.
Me: But no clear soda?
Imo's guy: (inarticulate confused noise)
Me: Alright, what sodas do you serve?
Imo's guy: There's Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Sierra Mist. . .
Me: (interrupts) That would be a clear soda, wouldn't it?
Imo's guy: Uh, I guess.
Me (long pause) I'll just take that then.

Hey, I've blogged twice in one day! My faithful readers (all 4 of you) should be licking their computer screens with glee! (yes, consider that a suggestion)

An elephant's faithful, 100%. . .We here at purecoin.com have offically decided to officially declare today Official Down With Passive-Aggressive Blogging Day. Huzzah! Instead I shall perhaps report interesting goings-on of my work place.

(crickets chirping)

My location of employment is not so much exciting and fun-filled as it is boring and illogical. . .it does, however, have the advantage of being a readily accessable observation ground for theories of social behavior. And it's a great place to find the answers to such burning questions as "How many e-mails does it take to change a voice-mail message?" and "Are all MIS guys named Jeff?" and "What exactly does the HR department do, anyway?" and "Are people really that stupid?"

Answers (i wish i knew how to make this section print upside down. ah well. . .): at least 8 / not all but most / my sources inform me they mostly drink the blood of blond-headed babies / they're not so much stupid as lazy and many of them also seem to have installed a safety on thier grey-matter, so they won't accidentally start thinking.

T'were best it were done quickly. . .My SuperEgo has the Id cornered right now and the Ego is cooperating for a change. You see, we think in the course of frolicking last night Id hurt a friend's feelings, albeit unintentionally. So, we've acknowledged this and are now brick wall in the faced with What To Do About It. Granted, other's feelings are not our responsibility. And further granted, we didn't actually do anything wrong or immoral or dishonorable; no rules were broken. However, the upset speaks to a misunderstanding and we would like to clear that up if we can. And we feel it right to at least apologize for the hurt. Our only other option would be to ignore the whole thing. Superego dismisses this as cowardly, "Time to suck it up and act like a man. . .or a brave woman. . .or something." I'll let you know how it goes.

Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed. . .How long does it take to know your mind? Only a moment, but the trick is which one. The instant when everything changes is too long by half; you can split second guess yourself a million times in the endless replaying. Or take the pause as you did when it seemed you could get what you thought you wanted; you set the top spinning to the tune of "do I really?" so now the activity is all perpendicular to the action. And the trice where all seems lost is not to be trusted; heartfelt panic will cling you to what is furthest from your mind. So what is left to do is to wait and wait and wait.

I'm as normal as blueberry pie. . .And today I am to be blogging like the Super Rocket Monkey! He is to be being the crime fighter, but as he is to be fighting things with love I am thinking the pacificts will be being ok with him. Which is being good, for sometimes there are being giant robots which are scary.

Then sometimes there are being little desert countries. We are not appearing to be fighting those with love. . .

But sometimes you get what you need. . .Yet another insane week is drawing to a close here at PureCoin (makes this sounds like a religious site or something) and I think it's time to take A Moment For Us: What have we learned this week?

~Sunbeam Tigers are not only very pretty, they are also very fast.
~Business attire makes one invisible to hospital workers while bleached-out hair does not.
~It is much easier to get a kitten than a car loan.
~Carrying antacids is generally a good idea.
~The electrical outlet in the sunken dining section of Uncle Bill's does not work.
~Money that doesn't exsist can be more important than money that does.
~Mold does grow on Spaghettios. It also has been known to attack John Denver.
~If you think something is a bad idea, it probably is. If you think you are pushing your luck, you usually are. If you think things will get worse, you're generally right.

And I shall wrap up with a fervent prayer to Steven Wright, Patron Saint of Ennui: Please let my life be boring for a little while, please. . .

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. . .um, ok, so I promised some friends that today's blog would be a little less gloom-and-doom oriented than I've been want to write of late, but the thing is, uh, another friend of mine is currently in the hospital in the aftermath of a heart attack and I just spent 3 hours this morning watching about 20 people where I work get fired in a very Inquisition-esque manner (that's a fifth of the company). So, while my personal angst has improved, my situational stress is sky high just now, yeah, so, sorry and all that, perhaps tommorrow with the sunshine and happiness and stuff.

Indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition. . .ok, I am feverish, achey and generally unwell yet, due to an nasty little thing called "disciplinary probation," I am still at work. As a result I am cranky, impatient and just generally irritable. Worse, I hate being like this, as I don't like snapping at people, which only aggravates the situation. I would suggest everyone approach with caution, keep your explanations short yet brief and perhaps tommorrow I will be a reasonable human being again.

These words are not mine. . .but when someone else has said it better, it's better just to go with it:

"He would not stay for me, and who could wonder?
He would not stay for me to stand and gaze.
I shook his hand and tore my world asunder,
And went with half my life about my ways." A E Housman

When a buddha meets a buddha, coming through the rye. . .So there's been this major paradigm shift in my world recently and that's been about as much fun as it ever and always is. . ..sleep patterns disrupted, appetite blown to hell, emotionally unstable. . .the ironic bit being that nothing has actually changed. . .and nothing is going to actually change. . ."So what's the bloody big deal?" I ask myself.

. . .no answer save the mantra "findthebuddha, findthebuddha, findthebuddha. . ."

There isn't a line here that rhymes with anything, anything, anything. . .You know what's funny? Watching a woman in an SUV sporting 2 flags and an "I'm Proud to Be an American" bumper sticker running a stop sign.

Know what isn't funny? The local Indian eating establishment papering a parking lot full of cars with flyers stating "We Condemn the Attacks on America" because they feel they have to.

Last night I went running through the screendoors of discretion, for I woke up from a nightmare that I could not stand to see . . .The inner Naif has assumed the fetal position in the couch cushion fort of my soul; she's making wimpering noises; we don't expect her to emerge anytime soon. Meanwhile the Warrior Duchess has armed, armed and out she strode to stand and block the sunny flower patterned obliette from intruders; both hands are white gripped around her light saber of righteous indignation; don't. make. any. sudden. moves. And the Priestess? She made straight for the goldentip darkroot meadows, the better to address her gods: "I don't need this. I don't need this! I DON'T NEED THIS!"

Where have the Druids gone? They're always so calm. . .

I'm losing my mind, everything's FINE. . .Ever have one of those mornings where you wake up and feel like a basically worthless human being? And then have it confirmed via e-mail? yeah. yeah.

Charlie don't surf. . .Guess who saw Apocolypse Now Redux this weekend? I had only seen half of the original, so it was mostly a new experience for me. Whew. What glorious filmmaking. And of course, my seeing it just now means I'm filtering it through the terrorist attacks and the looming military action. . .and I think everyone who is presently crying out for blood should have to sit down and watch it. I'm not saying it will nesseccarrilly (i've given up on ever learning how to spell that word) change any minds. . .I'm not even saying I want it to. I just wish I believed everyone had a clear idea of exactly what we are jumping into here.

Vietnam, the War on Drugs, the Crusades, pick your metaphor, the essense remains: The majority of the opinioned public would have it that we're unleashing our righteous hordes of avenging angels. Perhaps, but make no mistake that they are still creatures of darkness. . .and when this holy war of "freedom versus fear" is over we will have to answer for what they have done. . .and what they have become. I don't think it will be a very good answer.

Of course, we could just not have the war. . .

It is almost at odds with morning, which is which. . . I meant to wish everyone a joyous Mabon before I abondoned work Friday afternoon, but those half days just zip by rather quickly. . .hmm, was that an apology or thinnly-veiled bragging? Can't help but hope the spirit of the holiday of balance might seep into the collective unconcious a bit; I think we need a little balance, right this very minute...and maybe we need some nice pagan carols, too. Anyway, for those inclined to celebrate, I hope your equinox was lovely. . .as mine was, if somewhat subdued. More later today.

To hold, as it were, the mirror up to nature. . .I have to say, Martin Sheen's "taking God to task" speech from The West Wing season finale last night was magnificantly powerful. . .probably more so than when it first aired. Compelled to add, if I thought a man of that character's caliber was in the White House now, I would be less worried.

A friend just forwarded me the Lyrically Questionable Songs list, allegedly from Clear Channel (I say "allegedly" because according to Clear Channel's website this list does not exist. I suspect they're just being careful with their wording; note the use of "banned"), and I find that actually 2 friends sang questionable songs Tuesday, since Killer Queen is also on the list. Go team! Next week I'll get the cajones to sing "Leavin' On a Jet Plane," promise.

Sail on silver girl. . .One week after the WTC attacks, and life is trying to return to normal, I guess. . .as a midwestern civilian my daily activities are no longer out of wack and I've resumed my usual television-watching habits (ie, no news). . .and last night some friends and I were able to return (somewhat triumphantly) to our regularly scheduled Tuesday-night karaokeing. . .of course, there were only 4 of us there and we weren't quite our normal jovial selves, but it's a beginning. . .and in anti-tribute to some "consider these songs volitale" list which is apparently making the rounds of radio stations, one of my friends did a lovely version of one of the listed songs. . .good call, that. "Bridge Over Troubled Water" is a real rabble-rouser.

In other music news, apparently my friend Jim's band is going to be involved in a disaster relief benefit cd. Neat, very neat.

And now for something completely different. . .For those of you who, like me, are drowning your fear and bewilderment in political analysis and news over-exposure, Entropy has a nice selection of text quotes from various pundits. They're not presented in an unbiased manner, to be sure, but at least there's a nice even representation. And the commentary is well written, too, so who cares if it's subjective?

Of course, it doesn't hurt that I agree with most of what he's saying. . .

One tin soldier rides away. . .Point of curiousity: I wonder how many of the racist redneck assholes hereabouts who are currently screaming "Kill all the Arabs" and "Let's kill all their babies, so they don't grow up and kill our children!" will actually enlist if it comes to a land war. I bet it's a small number. I wish I were exaggerating the language. I really do. Ah, the heartland. .

Nor can there be that deity in my nature of here and everywhere. . . . .or can there? Go see Howard Bloom and decide for yourself. . . keep reading KMO, he is sharing words of perspective. . .check out Michael Moore's thoughts on the whole mess. . .and, for heavens sake, turn off the TV and go outside and play. . .I feel lucky to be alive on a day like today. . .very literally. . .

The rest is silence. . .Not having the words, yesterday this friendly blog was observing an official day of silence.

I still can't consider my own musings terribly important or relevant; I wasn't there (thank all the powers that be), and everyone I know and care about appears to be still alive and as safe as any of us get to be. In attempting to cope with my spectator stress, beyond curling up on the futon with my terrorism textbooks (this site is a good on-line referrence) and over-discussing the events with friends, my mental hamster has diverted itself into Hating the Media and Trying to Understand the Terrorists. Call it deflecting;I won't dispute you.

I can admit at the outset that it is terribly unfair to be loathing the entity to which I have been obsessively glued for the past several days. We did want and need to know what was going on, and I'm thankful we have the communications systems in place to enable that. So it's not really the media I hate, it's the packaging. Beyond the previously mentioned Terror Theme Songs, there were the quick-to-appear thematic uber-graphics, the "local updates" which are really just local spin machines. . .and most disturbing is the ever-present banal chatter from the talking heads. Last night: "September eleventh, 9/11, a number that will stay with us for the rest of our lives, just as so many people were, ironically dialing 9-1-1 that tragic morning. . ." Really.

I've long thought that news should, perhaps, not be entertainment. This event, in particular, IS NOT ENTERTAINING. We do not need this insipid blather to make the situation come home to us. It speaks for itself. And we should let it. People with cameras, and microphones available for any bystanders who wish to comment, period. Not investigators trying to interview those fleeing from collapsing buildings, hampering rescue workers on their way into the war zone, and hunting down relatives of those killed for truly wrenching soundbytes. You might argue that they're merely doing their jobs, and being quite brave at that. If I'm going to admire anyone it will be the police and firefighters who were "just doing their jobs" amid chaos and danger. I'll do honor to those who died and, even more amazing, those who are continuing to "just do their jobs" knowing they too could be buried at any moment. . .not the jackals packaging the tragedy for easy shipping and handling.

Obviously, I'm still a bit het up. Better save understanding the terrorists for later. . .I will sayKMO's site has been helpful for me on that score.

The only thing we have to fear. . .is the methodology employed to inspire fear. Notice how Hollywood and the local news and everthing seems to work on the "bigger, better, faster, louder, more" principle? So, too, terrorists, to truly inspire terror, must keep up with the times. Today we witness the results. Tommorrow we see the backlash.

And my friend e-mails me that there is already a "Terror In America" theme song. sigh.

A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys. . .Sitting in the sunlight on the steps of a Presbyterian church in Columbia, Missouri, drinking a smoothie and having a 5-hour "catching up on the last year and a half" conversation, I scoot over to allow room for a mother and small girl-child to descend.

Mother: "You're ok."
Me: "Just didn't want to add any obstacles for her."
Mother: "It's just being three; everything's an adventure at that age."
(pause as they wander out of earshot) (perhaps a chiming church bell in the background) (perhaps a lot of them)
Me: "You mean it's supposed to stop being an adventure?"
Friend: "What a sad life she must have."

Blame it on the Bossanova. . .which was a really fun West Wing episode, by the by. Still haven't seen the season finale. Today we are randomized for your protection:

Apocalypse. . .Calypso Music. . .Jammin' In The Name of The Lord. . ."...and behold, there rose from the sea a beast with seven dreads...". . .the 4 Steel Drummers of The Apocalypse. . .

Toasted Ravioli doesn't impress you? OK. Not enamoured of wafer thin pizza crust? I won't argue. But I will put Ted Dwewes frozen custard up against any sweet dairy-based frozen concoction you have to offer, buddy. Bring it on!

Since I'm considering moving to Seattle, friends felt obliged to point out a recent article in our local paper about the "Commuters Telling Woman To Jump" incident. It suggests that maybe Seattle is not such a warm and fuzzy place after all. Riddle me this: Who is more worthy of scorn, those who yelled for her to jump, or those who agreed with the sentiment and really wanted to yell jump but lacked the guts to do so? At least no one suggested the police shoot her down. . .

Missed the video music awards because I don't have cable. How sad is that? And is it sadder that I missed it or that I wanted to see it in the first place? I admit: MTV was my brain candy (especially the Real World. . .oh, the marathon weekends!). If I ever get cable it will pretty much be for that, Comedy Central and the Discovery channel.

Then I was inspired, now I'm. . .weary, very weary after the Sysiphusian (sp?) task of clearing out the company's voicemail box as new voicemails kept rolling in. See, our phone system is broken, in kind of an original way: The night message is stuck on, so anyone who calls is greeted with the statement that the office is closed and will be open between 8am and 5pm. . .anyone care to hazard a guess as to what percentage of callers felt the need to inform the voice mail box that it was indeed between 8 and 5 as they were calling? It was high, but not surprisingly so. (answer at the end of the ramble)

For I am rambling, as I never vowed not to. Had the random idea today to start a blog dedicated to Sophism and call it This Blog Is Not Here. You know hast been a long day when you call to make a hair appointment (just a trim) and ask if they could maybe squeeze in a chair massage as well.

44%

Fairwell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies. . .This dreadful conspiracy to defame sharks has me hopping mad, and I'm, hop, not gonna, hop, take it in silence, hop, any more, hop hop! As of yesterday, I have woken up one too many times to face a so-called Shark Attack as the lead news item of the Today show. In so far as this appears to distract the media from the Gary Conduit/Chandra Levy olds, this is a good thing, but in so far as it is spooning heaping helpings of negative PR on an undeserving predatory vertebrate, it is diabolical and bad.

Now an obvious and elegant solution would be to cease watching the Today show altogether. pause. ("Now an obvious and elegant. . .") Oh, how I wish I could, but in the absense of caffiene I require my intense loathing for the seldom-all-present co-hosts to propell me off the futon and into my day. Another just as obvious and slightly messier answer would be to kill the media, kill them all, AHAHA!. . .ahem, hop. . . however, defining what and who exactly is/are the media gets tricky, plus some of my best friends are journalists. . .but I digress and, hey, why focus on the solution when I could focus on the problem?

Dolphins.

Clearly these "friendly" mammals, about to be discovered in their on-going plot to take over the "world," have deflected suspicion onto the poor, harmless, unsuspecting sharkies. The sad part is, Flipper's ploy seems to be working. One man actually commented on how surprised he was that one shark attack happened merely two days after another. . .as if they should've spread them out more to throw us off. . .as if sharks carry around PDAs and synchronize their activities. . .as if most sharks don't have brains the size of a couple of peanut M&Ms!

And dolphins are supposedly all that bloody intellegent and you really expect them to be content jumping through hoops? Fools!
Hop. Hop. Hop.

You load 16 tons, and whadaya get? . . .So another summer has officially unofficially ended and it seems to be time to take stock. One excessively messy apartment, check. 3 rolls of undeveloped film, check. Handful of misc. ticket stubs, check. Nagging sense of having accomplished absolutely nothing, check. sigh.
And I've been sighing a lot lately, too.
Granted that my summer was very busy, very full, mostly fun and definitely a lot better than it started off to be. However, results of a concrete nature are somewhat lacking. . .so we direct our gaze bellybuttonwards to see if, having nought to show for the 3 months past, we perhaps show of it ourselves. The results are all too disquieting; August seems to have left us generally discontent. Or perhaps it's just proving the old adage: "In fall, young women's fancies turn lightly to thoughts of Grad School."
Startled wide awakening, 2:07am on the clock by the cat who didn't wake me for a change, by the thought that did for a change persued by another of "Where in the hell did that come from?"

Soothing the savage beastie. . .Nothing of note on my mind today except the re-opening of The Scottish Play, which the director has staged in a lovely post-apocolyptic style. In honor of that, I share this song (with broken leg wishes for all):

When You’re A Thane
(to the tune of When You’re a Jet) (duh) (with fervent apologies to Mr. Sondheim)

When you’re a Thane,
You’re a Thane all the way
From your first opened vein
Til the end o’ the play.
When you’re a Thane,
Let ‘em try what they can
You’ve got kinsmen around
You’re a part of a clan.
You’re never alane, you’ll nae be unattended
And in this campaign, with loyalties pretended
You’re well defended.
Then you’re dead great with a capital T
Well, at least til 5-8, when you’re Earled with an E
But until then you stay a Thaaaaa-aaaane!

When you’re a Thane
You can really get down
You can bust in some heeds
You can kill for the crown.
When you’re a Thane
You’re this bloody great dude
Who can fight all he wants
It’s a family feud.
The Thanes are on-stage, the bashin’s gonna proceed
We’re all in a rage, we’ll fight until you fake-bleed
At three-quarter speed.

Here come the Thanes,
From the vaum, at a run
Someone gets in our way
Someone won’t have much fun!
Here come the Thanes
With no reason to hide
If MacBeth gets too nuts,
We can always switch sides.
Betrayals galore, the king is six feet under
And there’s so much gore, you might begin to wonder
If you might chunder.
Here come the Thanes,
Yeah! And we’re gonna beat
Up each other with bats
Til you squirm in your seats.
Til you’re squirming, writhing, cringing in your seeeeeats!

The cheese stands alone. . .Where she shares with us some political views. . .oh joy! oh rapture!

Any meeting where I feel compelled to invoke the phrase "Tyranny of the Majority" more than once is officially an evil, evil meeting. Present and accounted for we had: the management-representative (who not-so-incidentally serves as the chairman of the committee), the intellectual snob from IS, the 2 moderates, the bread-and-circuses woman, the common-man woman and the resident anarchist-malcontent (that would be yours truly). This Sounding Board, as it is officially called, has a primary directive which involves processing employee suggestions and complaints and facilitating their resolution. Twas a beautifully illustrative experience to witness how concerns which did not happen to be shared by more than 3 of those present magically became unimportant and then disappeared. Interestingly, the same thing happened to any concerns deemed volatile. Now, far be it from me to suggest this as a model for why third-parties just don't thrive in this country. . .hee, hee hee, hee hee hee hee hee (laughs evilly).

Needless to say I became irrate and vocal. . .thank you high school debate!

The waters of oblivion. . .I posted yesterday and it has yet to appear on my blog. Mayhap I really am shouting into oblivion.

Or not. Ask and ye shall receive, it seems. This blog entry to be replaced by something more worthwhile, interesting or at least longer after the caffiene kicks in.

Or not. Since so many other blogs are slice-of-life landfills, I've decided to just leave it as is. . .and randomized for your protection:

there's 'decapitated' for having one's head removed, but is there a handy word for having some other limb chopped off?

Torill had a fair and rather gently put objection to damnthepacific dot com, to which Lane over-reacted a bit. . .it seems she has been expecting negative feedback which has yet to show up and thus had a lot saved up to use. Which begs the question: Am I the only one disturbed by this site?

Perhaps I should follow the example of good ol' G&E. . .

It's Blog, it's blog! It's better than bad, it's good!. . .Like a good little neophyte I've been doing my research, blog browsing, looking for a niche to fill, ideas to borrow, things to avoid doing: I am congratulating myself that my first post was a more eloquent way of saying "testing" than the usual, though one can't help but admire the economy of typing involved therein. I am envious of the travel-blogs I find, past or present, destination unimportant; they are in motion and I am not. I am confused by the high percentage of bloggers who seem to really love Mariah Carey (then again, so does the mail clerk here and she's a lovely person).

And then I discovered a blog which shook me to my tootsie roll center: damnthepacific dot com.

damn the pacific dot com is a current-standing Blog of Note and features the saga of Lane and Stu, two e-mail friends turned lovebirds. One lives in Australia, one lives in North Carolina and the site is their unapologetic attempt to raise money to bring them together. Did I say unapologetic? Make that downright aggressive. Thier blog reads like a PBS pledge-driver's wet dream, riding that fine line between begging and berating those who have yet to donate. . .which, as of 2 o'clock this afternoon, is everyone but Chuk and Jeff. . .who apparently rock.

Now, I could go on for awhile about the many, many aspects of this blog which disturb me . . .but I'd rather get to the most important question: Why are you damning the Pacific? What has the Pacific ever done to you? The Pacific is not to blame! Don't you think, if it only could, it would gladly slurp out of your way to give you two the wonderful close relationship you obviously oh-so-richly deserve? Why not blame the parents who were so insensitive as to give birth to you on opposite sides of it. . .and obviously won't even lend you the money for an airline ticket to cross it? While you're at it, why not blame the airlines for their unreasonable prices. . .and for charging more to people who live in Australia? And why not blame Australia, if you have to blame some geographical item? What's a civilized country doing being all the way over there anyway?

Poor Pacific, nobody understands you as I do. . .

Yes! We are all individuals!. . .Ah, just when you thought you'd had an original sort of idea or at the very very least an original blog title, you find one called Pure Coincidence. Well, I do, anyway. Presumably you would have to find a differently titled blog to give you the same feeling of intellectual vertigo which I just experienced. . .or a similar feeling, I mean; I suppose we can't really have the same feelings. Unless there are more of us than I thought. Note to self: stop using "you" when you mean "I". It gets too confusing.

Back to my original non-original point. I'm never sure whether these little incidences of coincidence are more comforting or frustrating. On one hand, they seem to point to a collective subconcious which, besides being kind of neato, suggests we are not really alone which is, tada!, comforting. Other hand, my superiority complex would like to believe me capable of truly independent thought and being ambushed by evidence that I am not is frustrating.

Or perhaps tis as my and my un-met friend's blog titles suggest and I should maybe stop over-analyzing it. And get some lunch.

My Strange and Self Abuse. . . God supposedly abhors a vacuum and my psyche abhors tranquility. Witness: spent my drowsy drifting off to sleep time and my 45 minute morning commute obsessing about random stupid things I said in a large late-night multi-person conversation. . .then proceeded to berate myself about these things to the tune of "You have annoyed them now and they will never wish to hang out with you again, ever. Serves you right you self-centered egotistical freak!" Never mind the fact that other people said things which could be considered aggressively offensive, "We're not responsible for them!" Obviously my SuperEgo was feeling the need to assert its authoritay. . .the Id has been partying it up this summer and Labor Day is nigh. . .my Ego sits back and waits to scavenge the remains.

Perhaps when I weary of being my own whipping boy I shall accept the crunchy munchy cinnamon bagel I bought as a peace offering. . .

So, we're at my first post and I should probably say something more interesting than "Long time listener, first time caller," but the truth is I jumped onto the blogwagon without considering why I really wanted to be here. So, this is a whim and now I guess i decide what to do with it. . .perhaps it will be that daily writing exercise my high school english teacher always wanted me to pursue. . .perhaps it will be therapy for my angsty days, solace for my mopey days and a groovy electronic bullhorn for when I have something fun and great to share. . .perhaps I will get others invovled. . .or post my latest one-acts and photog projects. . .perhaps twill become a stream-of-conciousness obliette. . .

For the nonce it shall remain whim driven. I'm sure a super-objective will eventually emerge.